No Truth at All
by Missy Miss J
Summary: Reality, immortality, and the difference. The deleted DVD scene has not stopped throbbing in my head, and the story continues...
1. No Truth At All

Summary: In three words, this story is about JACK'S BULLET WOUNDS. In more engagingly extravagant terms, it is a TALE OF A MAN WHO HAD THE HORIZON IN THE PALM OF HIS HAND, AND THE PRICE HE PAID ONCE HIS REALITY AND IMMORTALITY CONFLICTED.  
  
A/N: There is no overriding need for you to watch the deleted scenes of the (glorious) DVD, although it will certainly help. The story is revolved around JACK'S BULLET WOUNDS, which are revealed in the extended beach scene with Jack and Elizabeth.   
  
A/N 2: Like before, there is also no overriding need for you to read the AUTHOR'S NOTES, they exist only for one purpose, and that is to mainly serve the author.  
  
A/N 3: I would also like to note that I have capitalized the IMPORTANT WORDS AND PHRASES for your convenience. Isn't that sweet of me?  
  
---  
  
Truth  
  
It was hard enough the first time.  
  
There is a strange type of courage that is often muddled with recklessness. Nevertheless, it takes courage for a man to laugh standing at Gallow's Point. Insane, but courageously so.  
  
It takes courage to deny truth to two bullet in your heart, even to a little girl.  
  
"Is there any truth to any of your other stories, then?"  
  
It was in her eyes. The man she had spent so many years pondering and considering and fantasizing stood before her, and he was not the reckless scoundrel who had jumped out of the pages of her books. He was not the one who took her hand and flew out the window and into the night.  
  
"Truth?"  
  
He had to laugh. The sands of time had slipped through his fingers. Drunken nights that he would never enjoy again have slipped. There were no more beautiful women and white horses at his door. He had no door. All that was left when the sand blew away was the raw truth that remained etched on his skin. "P" for Pirate, price, in case he ever forgot.  
  
He might as well start there. The "P" was revealed, and she only stared.   
  
"Truth."  
  
He lazily lifted his blouse to reveal his heart. Where his heart was, in case he ever forgot, were two bullet scars.  
  
"Truth."  
  
And that would be enough.   
  
"No truth at all."  
  
"Where ye heart's at, if y'e'er forget."  
  
Crimson lips pressed against his chest. They were the color of ten thousand roses and the color of a puddle of blood. It takes a strange type of courage for a man to let them graze his body. It takes courage to bathe in the owner's grace and cruelty. Kindness and bloodlessness. Recklessness. 


	2. The Truth About Tortuga

The Truth about Tortuga  
  
---  
  
A/N: You're right. Jack's bullet holes are on the RIGHT side of his chest. RIGHT. That's what I meant. We apologize.  
  
A/N II: Special thanks to Vee17, McTurtle, and misspresh for the reviews. You guys are the best!  
  
A/N III: Vee, I don't know, are the lips metaphorical? Are they just a figment of his imagination? Are they simply an intangible creation of his heat-oppressed mind? The answer is no, but whatever. Just read on. All will be answered soon.  
  
---  
  
Evening twilight. The sweet bouquet that was Tortuga was not in its usual grace, and the intoxicating odor of alcohol amidst a fury of fists was not as strong as usual. The air was dense and, with the shortage of action, was allowed to fall upon the town like a blanket.  
  
"Cap'n?"  
  
Bootstrap's soft voice came from behind. It did not matter where. Bootstrap stood somewhere behind him. Not in front. Not beside.  
  
"Cap'n," he said again. "Cap'n. Something's not right."  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Something's wrong."  
  
Jack only nodded. This was the trouble with Bootstrap. Seemingly, he felt the need to repeat every thought in every sentence structure grammatically possible. Perhaps it was in order to stress the importance of his words. Perhaps he was prematurely senile.  
  
"I can feel it."  
  
"Yes, yes." The latter, Jack thought, was the more convincing reason.  
  
"It's not normally like this, Tortuga."  
  
Silence.  
  
"It's different tonight."  
  
Silence.  
  
"I -"  
  
"Can I ask you something?" The Captain turned around to face his crew, each with some horrifyingly ominous feature to boast of. Pintel's eye looked as though it would literally pop out of his head with a strong gust, for one. The Captain, however, faced the most normal-looking man of the crowd with a certain disgust.  
  
"Something wrong, Cap'n?" Boostrap's black hair was slicked back in a style that seemed to suggest status above the rest of the Black Pearl's men. His features were distinct and handsome, and his facial hair was groomed and tidy.  
  
"Something wrong?"  
  
"Yes, Bootstrap, as a matter of fact. Do you remember our time in Singapore?"  
  
Bootstrap stared at his Captain. "Yes. Yes, of course."  
  
"And what did we agree we were going to do with you in Singapore if you didn't stop talking?"  
  
Silence.  
  
"Sorry, Cap'n. I thought that was only applicable in Singapore."  
  
"Right, and now that you know it's not, be our guest." Jack smiled and nodded. A tilt of his head gave the crew permission to laugh.  
  
"All in favor?" came Barbossa's high, booming voice, managed between mouthfuls of apple. It was his fetish. Always there was the pounding question of what desperate but terribly entertaining measures his First Mate would resolve to if all the apples aboard the Black Pearl should, say, mysteriously disappear.  
  
"Aye," came unanimously.  
  
"I should think you'd like to keep your tongue for your woman's sake, savvy? She'd like that."  
  
"Understood. Won't 'appen again, Cap'n."  
  
"Oh good." Poking and prodding at Bootstrap was common source of fun, but it never failed to please. The tense atmosphere was lifted, and the men began to laugh and speak loudly amongst themselves. Jack made his way across the dirt road that was Main Street in long strides. Given, Tortuga was terrifyingly boring without public lust and demonstrations of the extremities of alcohol consumption.  
  
The Faithful Bride was, really, an oxymoron in Tortuga. Men and women willing and capable were rarely willing and capable of remaining true to their marital vows, and there was no better place to break one's marriage vows than inside the Faithful Bride itself.  
  
It seemed as though the entire population of Tortuga (those willing, capable, and seemingly of age) had been jammed into said bar, minimizing their public demonstrations of lust in order to accommodate the space limitations. Yet, Tortuga deserved commendation for its underestimated attention span as a woman clumsily climbed atop a table in the center of the room, provoking drunkenly enthusiastic applause.  
  
"I -"  
  
A glass mug drops, shattering. Drunken laughter.  
  
"I'd [inaudible] [inaudible] -"  
  
Curses come. A fight has broken out in the back corner.  
  
"- song -"  
  
Laughter follows thunderous chatter.  
  
"- for [inaudible] - special."  
  
"I can't hear a bloody word she's saying," Jack leaned over to his First Mate, who nods in accord, and who then gestures towards Bootstrap Bill Turner, sitting behind the two men.  
  
Bill had a most unusual look on his face, one usually reserved onboard the Pearl for nights wasted before barrels of rum during which he claimed to be having a conversation his dead mother and on his way to a pony ride. There was nothing else in his eyes but a short woman mouthing words passionately in a chaotic bar. Inaudible as she was, she was an angel, as her brown hair grazed her bare shoulders and fell down her back like a -  
  
"Bootstrap."  
  
Jack Sparrow knew it would not be much use. Bootstrap William Turner would remain fixed on his love for the remainder of her performance, after which they would retire to a room to express their unfaultering willingness and capability to become the only faithful bride and groom of Tortuga to one another.  
  
Pitiful as it seemed, Jack understood. Esther's audience steadily increases each night, and her power to distract the able and willing men of Tortuga from their usual fights on the streets and bring it inside the bar lies not only on her face and body. She had an air of innocence, simplicity, and seemed to offer hope and tranquility in the face of desperate need. Ruined, handicapped men visited the Faithful Bride. Pirates who have sold themselves to a lifetime of pillaging and plundering visit to see a last shred of purity.  
  
But Jack Sparrow was not a sold soul. With a pat on Barbossa's shoulder, he made his way to the dark stairs behind the bar. Black, creaking, they led him to where his heart and soul truly rested.  
  
---  
  
Next chapter:  
  
- A black hallway  
  
- Bare legs  
  
- Red lips (So yes, they are literal) 


	3. Above the Faithful Bride

Above the Faithful Bride  
  
A/N: My first attempt at an, err, "intimate" scene: bear with me. Tell me what you think.  
  
---  
  
Jack grinned. The upstairs of the Faithful Bride contained the residences of waitresses and escorts and "companions" as it were. The floor had not been swept in years, and creaked with each step. Noise from the downstairs area seemed far away and stifled. There was a corridor of tens of doors, each leading to crowded rooms.   
  
Busy rooms, no doubt. Occupied.  
  
Light became less and less existent as he moved away from the stairs, but the creaking did not. He did not hesitate, however, and to walk briskly towards the end of the corridor. Jack's heart pounded against his ribcage as the end of the corridor came closer and closer, and the door there was closed. Jack grinned.  
  
The door creaked open. Utter darkness filled every corner of the room, and it was impossible to see anything. Jack grinned, still. The intoxicating, familiar scent of a woman was telltale. It was one of too much smoke, alcohol. It was one of a wrinkled dress and sunburnt skin. Blood red lips lingering in air.   
  
"You're late."  
  
There is no speaker, just a voice. It was soft but piercingly so. Deep with meaning yet light-heartedly so. Puzzling.  
  
"Were you waitin', luv?"  
  
Jack moved towards chuckles. She was lying down on their bed against the far wall. Her bed. He did not want to play games, solving her riddles in the dark and tantalizing him with soft kisses. He just wanted to feel the warmth of her skin against his calloused, cold hands and breathe in the smell of her hair.   
  
Something collided with Jack's stomach as he made his way over. A foot.  
  
"What do you think?"  
  
That would be enough. Her foot was cold and smooth, and his hand followed it to find the exact location of its owner. Grazing her leg, it was bare. Soft against his hands, he found her waist, also bare, where he could determine the position she was in. Her legs were crossed, her arms now around his neck.  
  
"I missed ya."  
  
A powerful kiss. Her lips closed over his, inviting his tongue inside, sending chills down his spine as he relaxed on top of her. Finally, finally, finally. She shuddered under his weight and his fingers tracing her thighs produced a trail of goosebumps. Her hands found their way under his wrinkled, open blouse and onto his chest, where she dug in her fingernails. The strife and frustration of living his life dissolved into passion and excitement, and his lips made their way down to her collarbone. He covered every inch of her torso with kisses, making her back arch. His fingers running down her legs, she laughs.  
  
"You're still dressed."  
  
Jack paused.  
  
---  
  
Next chapter:  
  
- Undergarments. Everywhere.  
  
- The ultimate fishmonger  
  
- Where the heart is 


	4. The Truth About Strumpets

_A/N: holy shit - I can't believe I'm back. It's been too long._

**The Truth About Strumpets**

Home. Or the closest thing to it.

Months of sailing and long nights of work are gone. The pain of the old wound in his leg is gone. The peeling lips from days with little water are gone. Jack lay alone on an old bed in a broken, run-down room under a shaky ceiling. There were two other beds, both empty, in the room, and an old vanity covered with brushes, rouge, and undergarments. Speaking of which, undergarments could be found in every corner of the room. They hung from the corner of beds and were scattered on the floor. Ridiculous.

She was gone. The only evidence that she was ever even there was the warmth and scent still on Jack's skin, on his lips. Sunlight fought their way through the dusty window and onto his body, still bare.

"Mornin'."

She stood at the doorway, one elbow resting high on the frame. A red dress matched the color of rouge on her lips. Her hair was already done, a wave of soft curls framed her face and traced her shoulders.

"Mornin', luv. Where's Barbossa?"

She stood, staring. Her eyes were large and disarming when she chose for them to be. For the time being, however, she only stared.

"So that's the first thing ye say to me in the morning."

"Where's he?"

"Busy."

There is a silence, and she begins to turn away.

"Where?"

"With Mary. Drunk or asleep, exhausted, I'd say. I wouldn't know."

It hadn't come out the way Jack wanted to. This conversation was not the way Jack wanted it to be. There was nothing he could do now, so he just stared. She stared back.

"You were late last night."

"Esther was singing."

"Did she dance?"

"No, she was singing."

"Lousy strumpet. Never liked her singing."

There is silence followed by a chuckle, and she smiles. She leans back against the doorframe, tilting her head.

"I don't like her much. Acts like she's above everybody here. She smells like a fishmonger."

"Bootstrap doesn't seem to mind."

"Bootstrap's become a bit odd, have you noticed? He repeats himself quite a bit."

"I will have you know that repetition is what allows words to linger in your mind."

"My words linger, and I'm not senile."

She made her way over to him, stark naked, still in bed. Her red dress made every curve of her body tantalizing, and Jack could not help but smirk. She climbed onto their bed and sat down on his stomach, looking down at his face.

"Do you love me, Jack?"

Jack grinned. They have been through this a hundred times before, and at least a million more. She was the beacon of light that he saw in the middle of a dark, deadly storm. She was the banquet he thought of after days without food at sea. It was in her arms that he found himself in his dreams every night. There were no curses for the way she still tantalized him a year after his eyes fell on her, and the night they began their unspoken-of relationship. There were no terms that could describe the feeling that filled his body when he heard her voice.

"What do you think, luv?"

"I don't know, I'm asking ye."

Jack just grinned. The sunlight pouring into the window traced her face and shone through her hair. Rays danced on her cheeks and bare shoulders, and Jack just grinned.

"You are where my heart's at."

Her head tilted back as she laughed. She leant forward and pressed her blood red lips against his chest. Left, above his heart. Her rouge smudged and the shape of her lips was printed on his body.

"Where ye heart's at, if ye e'er forget."


	5. A Blue Dress

_A/N: I can't help but wonder why Pirates of the Caribbean has the allure that it does. Over a year later it keeps people coming for more - and this story gets reviews eight months after its beginnings. Thanks to Brittany Baker and dragonhavn for the comments. _

**A Blue Dress on a Black Night**

"This is hideous."

"It's fashion, luv. My unfortunate comrades had the honor of picking it up at the far sides of the world which, for your information, was the most tur -"

"That doesn't make it any mo - "

" – while you carry the immense responsib-"

"What?"

"- being wooed from every angle and in every accep -"

"It's ugly, Jack. You're terrible at picking dresses. You're terrible now and you always will be."

A silence falls upon the Black Pearl during the second night of its stay.

"Where s'it from?" she asks.

"Hmm?"

"The dress. Where s'it from?"

"London."

Another silence. In the distant is the sound of waves crashing onto the shores of Tortuga, each contact sending ripples contributing to the unsteadiness of the Pearl. Night gave way to chilly breezes across the ocean, but also gave way to a meeting of Jack and his love. Night shielded him from his comrades' protests of the presence of women on board.

"There were more storms on this trip than you can even imagine."

"Ye said ye were invincible."

Jack chuckled.

"I am."

"I'm never going to wear it, I hope ye know."

"Aye. Your choice."

Jack stood behind his steering wheel while she sat behind him on the deck. His back was turned to her, but the night would have prevented her from seeing the expression on his face anyhow. It was not an expression, and it was the lack thereof that showed his state of mind.

It was a soft, blue dress that boasted of a floral pattern found nowhere else on Earth but in a small village on the outskirts of London, he was told. Head to toe, the cutting of said dress defined the shape of a true lady, and had a texture that suggested status. He had the sleeves lengthened to reach the forearm, and had the dress remade to extinguish any involvement of cleavage and other such things. It was a lady's dress, for his woman.

There is a ripping noise, but Jack doesn't turn around. He paid dearly for that fabric. He doesn't cringe.

"There," she grunts, "the sleeves were too long. I look like a maid."

The Faithful Bride was full of onlookers too interested and comrades too curious on that particular night. Every dark corner would be too occupied to perform any dark deeds, and her fellow travelers of the path of burlesque were using the room upstairs for their own misdeeds. It was not the first time Jack brought her on board the Pearl to avoid unwanted attention and wandering eyes, and it would not be the last.

" – and it's too long. I'll have it shortened."

"It's the point. It's supposed to be long." Jack mumbled.

"I haven't got a use for a long dress, you know how it is. Nobody in Tortuga needs a train."

"You could be the first."

"No, Jack, it's hideous."

There is another rip, followed by a casual "Oops."

The moon was full. Captain Jack Sparrow stared.


End file.
